


rise if you're sleeping (stay awake)

by RaccoonDoom



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Medical Trauma, Nightmares, known cyborg chuck, non consensual medical procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 07:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10381581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaccoonDoom/pseuds/RaccoonDoom
Summary: You can't go back in time and stop hurts from ever happening. Mike knows this better than most people, he thinks, but that doesn't make him stop wanting to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's back and better than evah
> 
> Title from [High Hawk Season](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SMM04BFmYA) by the Mountain Goats
> 
> I will die with the headcanon that Mike has ADHD because like,,, its Right There y'all. This started out as a lil vent fic because I couldn't get to sleep because my brain wouldn't slow down and I ended up projecting and it turned into 3k words, funny how that works. 
> 
> Mike and Chuck are like... not _quite_ in a relationship, but at the same time they're so close they might as well be. 
> 
> Set sometime after Fearless but before the Finale.

For all he chided his friends about getting enough sleep, Mike was sorta terrible at going to bed on time. It wasn’t the staying asleep part--once he was out, he tended to sleep through the night. It was actually _getting_ to sleep that he couldn’t quite master. It was like when he laid down, his brain tried to make up for his body’s uncharacteristic lack of movement by working twice as hard, buzzing with half-formed ideas that never quite connected and left him restless and agitated. 

He’d been flopping around and kicking his blanket off and on for a couple of hours while his brain fixated on attack patterns, car upgrades, weak points in the grid, trying to make a connection like a car with a dead battery trying to start; ideas kept turning over and over in his mind, but they never quite clicked. He couldn’t stand it. 

So he got out of bed with little ceremony, straightened the blankets and pillow until his bed was passably neat instead of the rumpled mess it had been, and shuffled through the silent hideout. 

It was never completely dark, except in the furthest back hallways. The upstairs garage was dimly lit from the neon outside, and a single forgotten shop light clipped to the side of a tool box cast long shadows over the various parts Dutch was painting. Mutt’s hood was among them, the dents worked out from the last fight but still scorched and rough-looking. He smiled at it sympathetically. 

If it had been a different night, he might have gone for a drive to try and settle himself down a little. But it was late, and Texas was spending the night with his family out by the East Gate, and Dutch was at the Cablers’ Settlement with Tennie, and Julie was back upstairs in Deluxe; he didn’t want to leave the place with only Chuck and Jacob there to defend it. Not that he didn’t think they were fully capable! Just… if they were attacked, he didn’t want either of them getting hurt because he wasn’t there to help.

So instead, he sat at the red horseshoe booth and tried to choke down some leftovers that were probably going to get thrown out if they weren’t eaten soon--something like mashed squash and zucchini and onions all fried into a yellow-brown patty, it was mushy and bland and the texture reminded him of the flavorless nutrition cubes in Deluxe. He had a couple of holoscreens pulled up, outlining the areas that had been taking the most damage lately and trying to figure out if there was a correlation between that and the numbers and types of bots--if there was a pattern, it could really give them an edge. 

But he wasn’t the genius of the team, and no matter how long he stared at the numbers and watched recordings of the damage, all he saw were complicated calculations and meaningless statistics that he had no way of understanding. He closed the screens down with a half-hearted growl and shoved another forkful of soggy vegetable stuff into his mouth.

He heard the soft rustling of socks on concrete a few minutes later, so he made sure to sigh and shift noisily in his seat before Chuck rounded the corner to keep from startling him. It must have worked, because Chuck didn’t look surprised to see him. Glad, maybe? He hoped. He might have wanted the place to himself to sit in quiet, like Mike did--it was still hard to read him with the bangs covering half his face.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Mike asked, and was almost startled by how loud his own voice sounded in the quiet, like dropping a socket wrench on the hood of a car. 

“Yeah, something like that,” Chuck answered vaguely. He pushed his bangs up for a second to look at Mike, and the shadows under his eyes were bruise-dark before he let his hair drop down again. He slid onto the seat next to Mike and propped both elbows on the table. He was wearing a baggy old t-shirt with the sleeves cut off that--judging from the holes in one side and the grease stains on the front--had probably belonged to Jacob once upon a time; Mike could see the hairline scars running up his arms from his surgeries, almost invisible unless you knew they were there. He was _bony_ , Mike noticed again, in a way that was completely different from Dutch’s slim frame--he was built like he wasn’t supposed to be so thin. 

Mike pushed what was left of his plate in his direction and asked “You want the rest?” at the exact same second as Chuck went “You gonna finish that?”

They stared at each other for half a second, then Mike snorted and Chuck sputtered out a laugh as Mike pushed the plate at him and nudged him good-naturedly. He still couldn’t figure out how Chuck could stomach so much of Jacob’s cooking without complaint; Texas’s resistance to the concoctions was a different matter, he was a born-and-bred Motorcitizen and… well, he was _Texas_. Mike had been down for a year and his stomach was still weak to strong stuff, but Chuck apparently didn’t have that problem. 

“What about you?” Chuck asked, swallowing a bite. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Yeah, something like that.” He gave Chuck a wry smile, and laughed when got an elbow to his ribs in retaliation. It had been too long since they’d gotten to just...hang out, without any of the others, outside of Mutt. It felt good. 

“Mmph--mmm,” Chuck said, flapping his hand, then swallowed his mouthful, “I figured out how to get around that failsafe in the enforcer drones’ control algorithm. I think I could reprogram it to work with a remote control without it rejecting our hardware now.”

“For real? That’s awesome, man!” Mike said, and Chuck smiled as he pulled up 4 holoscreens and launched into an explanation of the firewalls in the control system’s software and how it interacted with the actuators and AI--after that, Mike stopped understanding much of the robot and computer terminology, but he nodded his head and tried to get Chuck to keep talking whenever it looked like he was about to stop and apologize for monologuing. It was nice to get him talking about the stuff he was good at. Mike could do cars, he understood how the bolts and belts and parts fit together to make the whole vehicle, but robots were far from his specialty. There were too many tiny pieces and too many ways a single error could ruin the whole machine. It was endlessly impressive to him that Chuck could look at the strings of code and tangles of wires and make something out of it.

Maybe it was just the lighting, white fluorescents and washed-out neon, but Mike noticed just how pale Chuck was; even his freckles looked lighter than they should be, and his cheeks looked kind of hollow. He couldn’t really get sick, so it couldn’t be that. He hoped it wasn't some sort of washout from the booster. Maybe he just wasn’t eating enough--it took a lot of energy to power the plasma slingshot, not to mention any of the other tech he had in him. He could take care of himself, Mike knew that, but it was hard not to worry about him. Part of him would always see the skinny little kid that got pushed around too often. 

“You know, I bet I could copy a big chunk of Kane’s updated antivirus to use on our home network,” Chuck said, plate empty and pushed off to the side. “Every time the Duke calls from his stupid home-coded server we get a wave of viruses and I _hate_ it, I have to go through and manually purge all of them and it takes forever.”

Mike snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

Chuck tilted his head in that particular way that told Mike he was rolling his eyes behind his bangs. “I’m too tired to shit-talk the Duke properly, so just try to feel all my negative emotions about him like, telepathically or something.”

Mike nodded. The pressure of exhaustion behind his eyes was stronger than it was earlier, even though his brain was still whirring in high gear, so he sort of expected to crash in the next hour or so. He kept zoning out, distracted by the hum from the fridge and the lights or staring vacantly at the tiny scratches in the surface of the table. Chuck was starting to fade out, too; the silences between ideas were getting longer, and he was interrupting himself with yawns more and more. 

“Hey, I think we should call it a night, buddy,” Mike suggested after another new minutes, little as he wanted to. 

“You go ahead,” Chuck said, waving him off. “I’m gonna work on some projects for a while. I don’t really wanna go back to sleep yet.”

Mike frowned. “Well, I don’t wanna leave you all alone.” This time of night made him uneasy--Jacob had once called it a witching hour. A period of time when it was bad luck to be awake and alone. “C’mon, let’s just hang out on the couch. You can work on your coding stuff and I’ll chill with you.”

“Mikey--” Chuck began, in the tone of voice that meant _don’t do something just to make me feel better_ , “c’mon, you don’t have to do that, just go back to bed if you’re tired. I’ll be fine.”

Mike rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed. “I don’t mind, man. I probably won’t be able to fall asleep for a while, anyway. I’d rather sit and watch you code than stare at my wall.”

Chuck stared at Mike for a second, possibly trying to decide if he was just saying that to be nice, then sighed and scooted off the bench.

“Alright, I guess that is a good idea,” Chuck admitted, and Mike rubbed his mouth to hide the satisfied little smirk he couldn’t quite keep off his face as he followed.

The couch was more comfortable than he remembered, which was likely due to the fact that it was 3 am and Mike was really starting to feel the hour. The blanket on the back of the couch was the multicolored one made of about a hundred little scraps of fabric that was big enough to cover Mike from head to toe. He dragged it across himself, and Chuck cocooned himself in the throw from the armchair, and Mike dragged the puffy, threadbare comforter up from where someone had left it on the floor and pulled it across the both of them.

It reminded him of when they would share a bed sometimes, back when they were together in the group home. He pressed himself against Chuck’s side and Chuck pulled his knees up to his chest as he brought up a few holoscreens full of maps and coding, and the combination of quiet familiarity and exhaustion put him to sleep before he could get any more bitterly nostalgic.

\---

Mike jolted awake because something hit him in the shoulder. Then something hit him in the side, _hard,_ a second later, and he was scrambling upright and reaching for his sparkstaff before he realized that it was just Chuck, and he had a half-second of confusion before his emotions shot straight to icy terror.

There were a half-dozen holoscreens hovering around Chuck, flickering green and red, glitching and clipping through one another and displaying lines of alerts and warnings in toxic orange text and Mike had no idea what they even _meant_ , much less what to do; Chuck himself was-- he _wasn’t_ seizing, it looked like it for a heart-stopping second, but no--he was shaking, struggling and thrashing like he was being held down. Mike tried to shake him awake, grabbed his shoulder with one hand and pushed his bangs up with another as the holoscreens threw dizzying colors across his face; his eyes were shut, but he was clammy and streaked with sweat and what was probably tears and gasping for air like he was _dying_. 

He knew Chuck had nightmares--he always had, even as a kid. But nothing like this. 

“Chuck, hey,” Mike tried to keep his voice even as he shook him again. “Chuckles, _c’mon_ , wake _up_.” He kept Chuck’s hair pushed out of his face, tried to remember anything he had learned about night terrors or trauma or shock or _anything_ that might help, any scrap of knowledge he could dredge up because he didn't know what to _do_ , and he saw the moment Chuck's eyes flew wide open for a split second before the holoscreens all shut down and plunged the room into darkness. 

By the time Mike’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, seconds later at most, Chuck had pushed himself to the far end of the couch, still breathing hard and terrified and making awful whimpers on each exhale. 

“Chuck, it’s okay, look at me--” look at me, lookatme _look at me_ , “It’s me, it’s Mike, look at me-- you’re safe, you had a nightmare. It’s just me.”

It took Chuck minute to look at him, actually _look_ at him, then he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and sucked in a breath, and another, then a third before he exhaled in a sob. Mike hovered his hand over Chuck’s shoulder, uncertain, before settling it tentatively on his back. Chuck didn’t seem to mind, so he kept his hand there until the worst of his crying was over.

His breathing evened out, eventually; he took a steady breath and wiped his face with the cut-out collar of his shirt, but wouldn’t look directly at Mike. 

After a minute of awkward, tense silence, Mike ventured, “You wanna talk about it?”

Chuck made a vague huffing noise and didn’t answer. 

“You don’t have to…” Mike began, but trailed off when Chuck turned to face him. He looked so _tired_. 

“I know, Mikey,” he said, turning his gaze to the floor, and his voice barely wavered. “Just… gimme a sec.” 

Mike expected it to take a bit longer than a second, but Chuck took a deep breath, scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and began talking.

“You know how I was in R&D, right?” he asked, and Mike nodded, though he was caught off guard by the topic.

“Yeah, cybernetics development.” He was accepted into their junior internship program just a few weeks before Mike joined the cadets. He was so proud, and Mike had been so happy for him. “That’s when you had your surgeries and stuff, for the, uhhh… advanced cybernetic implant experimental program,” Mike recited.

“Yeah, cyber-dev was...something.” Chuck ran a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. They fell back down like a curtain. “I was so excited.” He laughed, but it was a painful, bitter noise, and Mike had a terrible, gut-twisting feeling.

“I didn’t want the last few surgeries. I don’t think I ever told you that, but, uh, that’s when I realized they were doing stuff to me that I didn’t want, outfitting me with weapons and stuff. I’m so full of experimental tech that I have self-destruct and data-wipe protocols for if I’m ever killed or captured to keep anyone from getting their hands on this stuff.”

Mike stared at him in abject horror as his words fully registered, but Chuck added, “Don’t worry, I permanently disabled it. I’m not in any danger.”

The thought still left Mike feeling sick to his stomach and kind of like he wanted to cry.

“Anyway,” Chuck continued, “the thing about neural integration is that you have to be awake for it to work, so they don’t accidentally lobotomize you or something. They have to be able to test your responsiveness--I don’t remember that part, don’t make that face” he added, seeing Mike’s appalled expression. “But, uh. They had to drag me into the operations kicking and screaming and dope me up on enough narcotics and paralytics to kill a Hound before I’d stop fighting. That’s...what I was remembering.”

Mike stared as the words sank in. He had only been a few floors away, training with the cadets--they had been in the same _building_ , he could have snuck off to see him if he really wanted to, he could have gotten him _out_. He couldn’t think of anything to say--there wasn’t anything he _could_ say, nothing that wouldn’t fall pathetically short of what he wanted to articulate. Instead, he reached out slowly, making sure to telegraph his movements, and pulled Chuck forward into a hug.

Chuck was tense in his arms for a long moment. Just as Mike was about to let him go and apologize, though, he relaxed all at once, letting his head fall forward onto Mike’s shoulder. Mike rested his chin on Chuck’s shoulder and, after a few seconds, let his eyes slide shut. He steadfastly ignored the tightness in his throat and the way his eyes burned. 

Chuck pulled back after several minutes and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. It was just dim enough that his freckles were almost invisible.

“Thanks,” he rasped.

“Let’s sleep on the couch tonight,” Mike said, instead of any of the other things he really wanted to say. _I didn’t know your nightmares were this bad_ and _I wish you had told me sooner_ and _I don’t want you to have to hurt all alone_ and _I don’t want you to have to hurt_. He figured Chuck would pick up on the subtext.

“Yeah,” Chuck said quietly. “Yeah, that sounds good.” He wrapped the throw around his shoulders like a cape, and Mike picked up the quilt and comforter from where they had fallen to the floor and situated the blankets across the both of them again. Chuck pulled his arms free of the blankets, and Mike reached out without thinking and grabbed one of his hands, holding it just tightly enough that he could feel the tendons shift, feel the way Chuck was still trembling near-imperceptibly. He wormed his way closer and pressed into Chuck’s side again, leaned his head on Chuck’s shoulder, and squeezed his hand briefly. 

Something warm and tender and bittersweet filled his chest when Chuck squeezed his hand back and held on tightly, resting his head on Mike's. His fingers were cold and his fingernails were chewed short and his bangs brushed Mike's face, barely.

He stayed awake for a long time after Chuck fell asleep. They were still holding hands when he woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> it's 2 am and I have to get up at 6 holla I hope yall are grateful
> 
> trivia:  
> 1\. That weird vegetable thing Mike's eating? Based off of a thing my dad made once that was just yellow squash and zucchini and onion and cornmeal all fried together, but it was actually pretty good if you ate it fresh and hot.
> 
> 2\. The sleep-shirt Chuck is wearing is based off the shirt I wear to bed 80% of the time, its got the sleeves cut off and the collar cut out and it's probably 40 years old. It's got a big Harley-Davidson logo on the front and some motorcycles on the back
> 
> 3\. Just realized I never described this because it doesnt matter but Mike is wearing a plain ol t-shirt and sweatpants


End file.
